Again he heard a chorus of gasps, but none of them was Patou’s. Patou smiled before replying: “I had the honor of meeting the Emperor on more than one occasion, when he was the First Consul,” he said. “I had a dear friend who knew him very well. Alas, he was taller than I–and therefore taller than you–by twice the width of my thumb.” He held up his hand as he said it, by way of illustration.
“Alas,” Ned echoed. “Will you have a drink with me, Monsieur Patou–and your friend too, of course. I have just ordered a meal for my old friend, who seems a trifle thinner than when we saw him last. What is your companion’s name, by the way? Has he too passed through the hangman’s noose and survived to tell the tale?”
“John,” said Patou–addressing the giant rather than answering Ned’s question, although the name provided one item of the information for which Ned had gone fishing, “will you take your fellow patient by the arm and guide him to the door. I’m sorry, Monsieur Knob, but I am fearful for the well-being of both my patients. No one should be wandering abroad on a night so cold, even to see his old friends. He will come again when he is fully recovered–you may be sure of that.”
“I’d dearly like to know the hospital in which he’s lodged at present,” Ned was quick to retort as the giant moved forward. “We’d all like to visit him, wouldn’t we, Sam? With your permission, doctor, of course. Is he in Guy’s, perhaps, or St. Thomas’s?”
“You may be sure that I shall send word to you when that is possible,” Patou said, his voice still purringly polite, although there was a slight edge of steel in it now. “Mine is a private sanatorium. As you can see, your friend has been very seriously ill, and he is far from himself at present. When he is well enough, I shall be very glad to admit visitors to see him.”
“But where?” Ned retorted. “Your card has only a Paris address.”
Patou bowed, and reached out his ungloved hand to take back the card. Then he produced the stub of a pencil from the pocket of his trousers, and scribbled on the back of the card. “You may reach me via that address,” he said.
Ned glanced down. The address was in Stepney; Ned did not know the street, but he did not know of anything in that neighborhood that could pass for a private sanatorium. He had taken note of the fact that the Frenchman had not said that he was actually in residence there. Ned wondered how many men it would require to immobilize the giant. There would be no shortage of volunteers if he called for help on Sawney’s behalf, and the two newcomers could not possibly stand off a multitude. On the other hand, Ned did not want to start a fight in which Sawney might get hurt. The old man’s condition was obviously very delicate. If this physician really had revived him after a hanging, even if the executioner had been careless, it was the next best thing to a miracle–and it would be a great pity were the work to be carelessly undone.
“You’re very kind,” Ned said, insincerely. “Are you sure that Sawney would not be better if he were fed before he braves the night again?”
“Quite sure,” Germain Patou replied. “But I hope that you’ll permit me to pay for the wasted supper.” He rummaged in his trouser pocket again, and this time hauled out a sixpence. He threw it on the table, saying: “Please let me buy you a drink, Monsieur Knob–and your friends too. Are you ready, John?”
“Won’t you stay a little longer, Sawney?” said Jeanie Bird, courageously. The giant was still staring at her; there was no hostility in the stare, but it was intimidating nevertheless.
Patou moved around Ned with surprising agility, and laid his hand on Sawney’s shoulder. “We must go back, now,” he said. “You will see your friends again, I promise.”
Sawney stood up. “Wanted to see you,” he said, regretfully. “Must go back now.” His voice had faded to a broken whisper, and his grey brow was deeply furrowed, as if the memories he had been trying to recover were proving perversely evasive.
The Frenchman guided Sawney back to the giant named John, who took Sawney by the arm. Sawney looked up at the giant, trustfully. “Wanted to see...” he repeated–but this time his voiced drained away to nothing, and he seemed to be on the point of collapse. The giant took firmer hold of him, supporting him as he took a step towards the door. Ned did not imagine that there would be many in the hall who would be sorry to see him go. He did, however, observe that the giant cast a long backward look at Jeanie Bird.
“You must come back and see us again, Monsieur Patou,” Ned said, softly. “You have our undying gratitude, for what you have done for dear Sawney. Do you hear me, Sawney–we love this man, for what he has done for you, as we have always loved you. Send for us when you can, I beg you.”
Sawney roused himself in response to this speech. “Ned,” he said, weakly. “Gentleman Ned. Wanted to see...”
“You shall see us all, old friend, when you’re well,” Ned assured him. “Depend on it.”
The giant was already guiding Sawney through the door. Patou bowed and tipped his hat before picking up his suitcase and following them.
Ned was so confounded by the event that he did not even try to prevent Jenny Paddock from scooping up the sixpence as she laid down the unnecessary mashed potatoes, or complain when she did not offer him any change. “Stay here, Sam,” he said–although Sam had not given the slightest sign of getting up. “I’ll follow them all the way to Paris, if I must. I’ll meet you here tomorrow, as usual.” He paused just long enough to make sure that Patou’s visiting card was safely stowed in his breast pocket before setting off for the door. By the time he got to it, the hubbub of conversation had risen behind him to twice its normal volume.
The night was very dark, and there was enough fog to stifle the meager lamplight that shone at either end of Low Lane. That was not to Ned’s disadvantage, though, for it made the giant’s lantern that much easier to see, and to follow. The exotic company made slow progress, for the giant was still supporting Sawney and was by no means light on his feet himself.
Ned had followed better men than these and gone undetected. He was on his home ground, and knew how to hide himself away whenever Germain Patou glanced behind–which he did quite often. Ned had hoped that they might turn north but they went south, towards the Thames, and then turned east. They went under Blackfriars Bridge and continued along the embankment towards Southwark Bridge.
If they had a boat waiting for them, Ned knew, his boast that he would follow them to Paris would be so much wasted breath.
The route that the three men followed was not a safe one for a man dressed as Patou was dressed, even if he had not been carrying a bag, but they went unmolested. If the giant’s size were not deterrent enough, the lantern-light still displayed the corpse-like pallor of the Frenchman’s two companions. The hawks patrolling the rookery and the shore were very prone to superstition, and there had been all kinds of eerie rumors abroad since the recent epidemic of burking had begun. No one imagined that the surplus of snatched bodies was merely being piled up in some cellar beneath St Thomas’ Hospital, and everyone had his own hypothesis as to the use to which they might have been put.
So far as Ned knew, there had been not an atom of evidence available within the bounds of the city to support any of those hypotheses–until now.
Despite its slowness, the journey was not a long one–but the three men did have a boat waiting. Nor was the ferryman’s skiff the craft that would take them all the way to their destination–in which case Ned might have been able to follow it along the bank. The ferryman took them no more than 30 yards out into the watercourse and 100 yards downstream, where a two-master was waiting on the far side of Southwark Bridge, on the edge of the navigation channel. There were men waiting too, to haul Patou’s two companions up to the deck–ordinary men, so far as Ned could judge, not grey ones. The lantern in the stern cast just enough light for the vessel’s name to be read: Prometheus.
The giant passed his own lamp down to Patou before climbing up, and Ned hoped that Patou might keep it lit, but the short man snuffed it out before he
was lifted in his turn. Ned was doubly annoyed when someone else came out on to the bridge to look down at the new arrivals. Ned’s heart began to pound within his breast, and not because of his exertions in following the three strangers from Jenny Paddock’s. It was pounding because the man on the bridge was wearing a Quaker hat.
Ordinarily, Ned would have remained deep in the shadows, anxious not to be seen by the men he had been following, even though that no longer mattered. The sight of the Quaker hat changed his mind. He stepped forward on to the quay, deliberately setting himself beneath an oil-lamp, where he knew that he would be seen–and having done that, he raised his arm, as if in a salute.
The man in the Quaker hat did not return his gesture–not, at least, before a blanket was suddenly thrown over Ned’s head from behind, and he was grabbed by at least two pairs of hands.
Throwing a blanket over someone’s head to cushion the cudgel-blow that would lay them out was a burker’s trick. Ned just had time to curse the name of Jack Hanrahan before the anticipated blow landed on the back of his head and knocked him insensible.
Chapter Two
A Cell in Newgate
Ned knew that he must have stirred and tried to sit up before becoming fully conscious, because the first thing of which he became fully aware–apart from the thundering pain in his head–was someone pressing a cup to his lips and bidding him drink.
It was laudanum, but diluted to a concentration that would do him more good than harm. Once he was sure of that, Ned drank meekly. He wanted his headache gone as soon as possible; wherever he was, he was in trouble, and would need his wits about him.
“Lie down!” a voice urged him. “Wait just a little a while, and you’ll be well enough to talk.”
Ned managed to open his eyes a little, in spite of the pain–but the light, such as it was, made the speaker a mere silhouette. He was tall, though not as tall as the grey giant, and he was not wearing a hat. Ned did not recognize the voice.
Ned did as he was told and lay back, keeping as still as possible to aid the relief of his sore head–but he kept his eyes open by the merest crack, so that he could study his surroundings. It was difficult to concentrate, but he knew that he had to try.
He was in a bare-walled cell whose walls had been recently whitewashed–although some of the old graffiti still showed through as a series of enigmatic blurs. It had no window but it did have a small ventilation-shaft let into one of the corners and a grille in the sturdy door. The wooden pallet on which Ned was lying was obviously intended as a bed although it had no mattress. The only other furnishings the cell boasted were a rickety table and two chairs. The table bore a medicine-bottle, a jug of water and a freshly-lit candle in a cheap tin tray.
The silhouette drew away, and resolved itself into the form of a man. He was better-dressed than Ned–though not so well as Germain Patou–but there was nothing of the dandy about the cut of his black jacket or his burgundy cravat. If this was a gentleman, true or feigned, he wore his status casually.
It was not until his captor finally sat down at the table that Ned saw his face, in profile. For a moment, he failed to recognize the face just as he had failed to recognize the voice, but then he realized who it was.
“Well,” he said to himself, silently, “I must be in Hell or Bedlam, and it may not matter which. If the dead are walking abroad tonight, they have come out in full force.” He had to make an effort to pronounce the words clearly inside his agonized skull, and was proud of himself for holding on until the end of the sentence.
Ned was doubly resolved, now that he knew who had power over him, to do exactly as he had been instructed, and lie as still as he possibly could until the laudanum calmed his raging headache. While he did so, he tried to calculate exactly how much trouble he might be in, and of exactly what sort.
He could not do it; events had moved too rapidly, and had taken too many strange turns.
“But I am Republican Ned Knob,” he reminded himself. “I have more wits about me than any common enemy of the crown. If I do not appear on stage with Sam and Jeanie, it is only because I would be taken for a clown by virtue of my size. I can act as well as Sam, though not as well as Sawney could. If this man is determined to send me after Sawney, I must best him by cunning. It can be done. It has been done!”
A few minutes later, he sat up, and made a show of dusting himself down. “Well, Mr. Temple,” he said, “I’m very glad to see you. I thought I’d been attacked by an eager burker, adapting to the excess of demand over supply as any orthodox political economist would. Perhaps I was, and you came to my rescue? Where am I, by the way?”
“Newgate,” Gregory Temple replied, brutally. “Where you’ve long belonged, Master Knob–and where you’ll likely stay, if you do not give me satisfaction.”
“Newgate,” Ned echoed, trying to sound no more than pensive. “My memory is at fault, then, for I do not remember being arrested, let alone charged, tried, convicted and sentenced–or has the law lost sight of such niceties, now that it must cope with determined radicals as well as the rabble?”
“You’ve not been charged with any crime as yet,” Gregory Temple told him. “You should not congratulate yourself on that score, though, for I can think of half a dozen if I need to, and make every one of them stick.”
Ned was annoyed by that. “You are addressing me with naked contempt, Mr. Temple,” he said, getting off the bed and coming to sit at the table, opposite his captor. His head reeled but he took himself firmly in hand and resolved to sit very still while he faced his adversary. “I do not deserve that. If either of us has any cause for resentment against the other, it is me. You did me a very bad turn once, by means of shabby trickery–but that was a long time ago and I’m not a man to hold grudges. I’ve forgiven you, for your lovely daughter’s sake. If you wanted news of her, you did not need to have me kidnapped–you had only to seek me out and ask.”
He realized immediately that he had made a mistake in mentioning Temple’s daughter. His captor’s face had been quite bland until then, considering that he was reputed to be a madman prone to apoplectic fits, but it became exceedingly furious now. “My daughter!” Temple cried, explosively. “What would a foul worm like you know of my daughter?”
Ned was taken aback, and honestly puzzled. “Did you not know that I know your daughter?” he asked, in frank surprise. “I have not seen her as often lately as I did in the wake of... the unpleasantness, but I spent three months at the chateau this summer. I know that you have not visited her there for years, but I assumed that as you are now up and about...” He broke off, frightened in spite of himself by the way that Gregory Temple was staring at him. “I appear to have misunderstood,” he murmured, “I apologize.”
Temple seemed to be fighting his own anger, with more than a little difficulty; it was his turn to be silent, and to wait until he was better able to speak. Eventually, he said: “How was she?” Evidently, he had cut off all communication with his offspring, although Suzanne Temple had been too proud to confess that to Ned.
“She is well,” Ned said. “Richard, too–both Richards. The Comtesse is also well... and her son. You do know that the Comtesse has a son?”
“That I knew,” Temple said. “What I do not know is how and why you have been her guest.”
“Ah,” Ned said. “I’m sorry–your reputation as a detective led me to assume that you would know everything. I carried a message to the new chateau on the night of the Comte’s acquittal. Many of the guests awaiting him there thought it politic to withdraw in a hurry, but I stayed with Lady Frances–Countess Boehm, as she became, or Sarah O’Brien, as you knew her–to be of what service I could. As things turned out, there was a great deal I could do... not so much for Lady Frances, but for Jeanne Balcomb, whose position as the Comtesse de Belcamp needed to be proved, and regularized. I was Mr. Wood’s clerk once, you know. There were a great many documents to sort through, a great many commissions to carry out, necessitating a great many trips back a
nd forth across the channel. I’m quite the seasoned traveler now, Mr. Temple.” He stopped, anxious now because he did not know exactly how far Temple’s ignorance extended.
Temple was silent for a few moments before he said: “I see. But that’s not the reason you’re here, Master Knob–not directly, at least. You’re here to answer questions about Jack Hanrahan and Alexander Ross.”
“Hanrahan!” Ned exclaimed. “What do I know about Jack Hanrahan? And who on Earth...” He broke off again, cursing himself for not having remembered soon enough that Alexander Ross was the name Sawney had been given at birth–and the name under which he had recently been hanged.
“You were seen talking confidentially to Hanrahan last night at Sharper’s,” Temple stated, baldly, “just before your friend Ross came in–startling you as much as everyone else. I understand.”
“Hanrahan said that there was something he wanted to talk to me about,” Ned admitted, remembering the fact belatedly, “but I never found out what it was because Sawney came in just then–and Hanrahan backed away, like a frightened rabbit.”
“But you do know Hanrahan–and you know his profession.”
“I know him as well as any of the regulars at Jenny’s–which no one calls Sharper’s any longer, by the way, though the old plaque still hangs outside the door. He, I dare say, knows me a little better, since I’m now in charge of Sawney’s old troupe–his actors, I mean, lest you should think I mean something else. I can’t replace him on stage, of course–no audience could take a man of my status seriously in the kinds of roles he used to play–but I can write and direct, and ever since Sawney persuaded Jenny to take down Tom’s old boxing ring and make a stage instead, we’ve gone from success to success. You should come and see my boys and girls perform, Mr. Temple–although it might be as well to come as Solomon Green. Some of the old hands are better by far at holding grudges than I am. What are you doing nowadays, by the way? I never really believed the rumor that said you were in Bedlam, let alone the one that said you were dead–although I think Suzanne might be very grateful for some proof of their falsity, if she really has none.”
Tales of the Shadowmen 2: Gentlemen of the Night Page 31
